Eternal Hunger
by UtopiaV1
Summary: A tale of adventure and battle in the Ogre held Mountains of Mourn! Bretonnian archer Gerrad Terriholme attempts to slay the Ogre Tyrannt Braugh Slavelord in revenge for the destuction of his Bowman detachment. Prologue & [NOW] Chapter 1 are up!
1. Prologue

NB: Everything to do with Warhammer or Games Workshop is copyright Games Workshop, and isn't mine…. Unless I become the manager! Ahhh, my dream job…

**Eternal Hunger**

**Prologue**

After wandering around the large Bretonnian city for what seemed to be the hundredth hour, you decide to meander into the nearest pub and ask for directions. With the huge castle-stronghold looming in the background, and the streets completely deserted, you stumble your way into a bar called the 'Drunken Dwarf'. Outside, the night is pouring down the heavens, and so the relative dryness and warmth of the tavern provide welcome relief. Light from various lanterns dotted around the cobbled stone walls light the wide, but not so high, room. It seems almost full of people laughing and talking, many of them human, but a few are Dwarfs and Halflings, and there is even an Elf Noble at the bar, with bodyguard escort, seeming to be doing some sort of deal with the landlord. Everyone has a tankard in their hand, and the wood plank floor is drenched in beer from many years of spillage accidents. You force your way through the many bustling crowds gathered around small round tables, and finally manage to reach the bar, and shake your cloak dry. As a barmaid finishes serving another customer, a violent looking Dwarf with an eye-patch, she turns to you, and you order a large tankard of cheap ale. Scraping some copper out of what little money you were carrying in your pocket, craftily sewn into the inside of your cloak, you pay her and take your beer in both hands, taking a huge gulp of the revolting cheap alcohol.

Not very far away from you, in the far right corner of the room, is a small seating alcove with a huge decorative pair of lances crossed over a half blue half yellow shield hanging over it. The table and seats are large enough for five men to sit in, but there is only one man there, dressed in a worn Bretonnian Men-at-Arms uniform. He has a few grizzly animal trophies hanging off his belt, with a couple of pouches filled with other trinkets on either side of his waist. He is in his waning years, and with a heavily weathered face, sitting calmly with a half-filled tankard of what looks like flat ale. People seem to keep a respectful distance from him. The barmaid catches you glancing at the man, and tells you that he is a seasoned veteran of the Bretonnian army, and that he comes in here every other night for a quite drink at the same table. You nod politely, not really caring, and go over to his table, place your beer on the table, and sit opposite him. He doesn't notice you. Water is still dripping off your raggedy clothes, and so you brush your sleeve and take another deep swig of your horrible drink.

"Quite a thirst you've got there, young 'un." He says suddenly, above the ruckus of the tavern. You put down your drink and look at him. He slowly raises his head; the shadow of his hood shrouding most of his face from the light coming from the lanterns. You tell him you are just in needing of a quiet drink and some directions to the nearest port.

"Aye, I can tell you the way, young 'un, so long as you slow down with that drink there. That cheap stuff'll eat away at yer, and you'll wake up tomorra' in a gutter, never to see your purse again…" He grins, bearing his yellow teeth.

"Anyway, before I tell you the way, I got a little bit of a story for you, about finding your own path in life, if you're interested…" You shake your head, but he continues anyway, "You ever met an Ogre, young 'un? Big ugly things, as tall as a single-storey building, can pick up trees and use them as clubs! Not that they often do, they make their own clubs out of rock and metal, nasty things… Not naturally green-skinned, but the freezing conditions of the mountains they live in causes the slight greeny-ness. Massive bellies covered with a gut plate… very cautious about guarding their stomachs, it's where they believe their 'magic' comes from. Their mages use 'gut magic', eat things and mutter incarnations to break bones and things… I knew someone once who had to fight against a whole lair of these massive beasts! And look, he gave me the head of their leader an all…" He points to the huge severed head in the centre of his collection, glazed in order to preserve it through time and keep it reasonably fresh. Its tough flesh seems to do that anyway. At this moment you half get up, intending to ask someone a little less senile. He waves you back into your seat.

"Listen, it won't take long, and I'll buy you a beer for your troubles. Just… let an old dog tell a tale of violence and glory? One day, you might have your very own tale you want to pass onto a young adventurer, so let me pass on mine…" You agreed to sit back down, and the man waves a barmaid over to the table. He orders the house ale for you, and then settles back down to continue his story…


	2. Chapter 1

**Eternal Hunger**

**Chapter 1**

Our story begins in the village of Hiltford, a small settlement many days ride away from any decent city or stronghold, just south of the Ivory Road. Small red stone houses were stretched out in a large T shape, the colour of the stone showing they had been carved and brought down from the nearby mountain, Flayed Rock, located to the south-east side of the town, across the River Ruin. This mountain marks the beginning of Ogre territory, and is one of the tallest peaks in all of the Mountains of Mourn.

This was a new-ish settlement, standing for nearly a quarter of a century; its townspeople had originally been part of a huge convoy of settlers looking for work and new homes in Far Cathay. Their wagon train was attacked by Ogres just as they were entering the Mountains, and the convoys' armed escort bravely stayed behind to fend off the massive brutes while the civilians retreated south, following the river along the Howling Wastes, the desolate wastelands west of the polluted River Ruin. After a day of slow and treacherous hiking they then came upon the Black Fortress, an eerie abandoned Chaos stronghold, and not wanting to venture too close, they set up a temporary camp far north-east of it, which quickly grew as survivors from other caravan raids found it and settled there. It became a permanent township, and was sanctioned as an official town and supply depot of Bretonnian Empire in the Season of Growth a few years later.

The town suffered many Ogre raids since then, coming from the mountains to the east, which was the territory of a tribe lead by an Ogre Tyrant named Braugh Slavelord. Every year more soldiers were sent to protect the town, which had become a vital re-supply point for travellers entering the Mountains of Mourn on the Ivory Road, or the Spice route just west of the town. The Spice route leads south and veers east after entering the only other civilised town in the Howling Wastes. This town is called Pigbarter, and its population exists purely to hunt Gnoblars, small gremlin-like creatures with a penchant for bickering and backstabbing, for their tough hides, and also to protect the Spice route. The route itself tracks just above the Haunted Forest, which is Gnoblar Country, their natural homeland. As a result, most of Braugh Slavelord's Ogre attacks against Hiltford were supported by massive numbers of Gnoblars, as his territory managed to just stretch into Gnoblar Country.

Autumn was sweeping through the shallow valley as the Season of the Harvest was coming to an end. The once rich, sparsely populated green-leafed trees surrounding the town were turning into a collection of light golds and browns, matching the surrounding wasteland. The small collection of farming fields surrounding the town were empty now; the crop harvested and stored in preparation for what the village elder was referring to the coldest season in a hundred years. Wild horses were still galloping through the huge stretching barren plains of the Howling Wastes, but many had been recruited by the great Bretonnian Knights so that the Knights could train them in discipline during the Season of the Frost. Come next year, when the weather became tenable, they would take them out into the enormous training fields outside their huge stone-bricked castles to build up their strength again after a whole season of standing around in their stables.

But that destiny was not for the free horses still left in the fields surrounding the town. They were used partly as an early warning system against Ogre attacks, and on the last day of the Season of the Harvest, they began to gallop away from the River towards Hiltford. Peasant Bowmen in the eastern watchtowers spotted them, and rang the alarm.

"Ogres! Braugh Slavelord's Ogres are attacking! Men-at-Arms, to the east defences!" screamed one of the watchmen. As the alarm echoed through the town, people hurried home from their daily duties of farming and trading, and the Men-at-Arms of the town gathered along the east lip of the shallow ditch that encircled the town.

One of the first to see the great sea of Ogres attack was our hero, a Bowman named Gerrad Terriholme. He was a 40-year old veteran Bowman of many wars against Orks in other provinces of the Bretonnian Empire. He and his Bowmen detachment had been posted in Hiltford a few weeks before, because it was widely assumed by the Bretonnian lords that Ogres acted much like Orks, and the town needed someone who knew how to fight the brutish hordes and was alive to teach about it! In truth, Gerrad had never fought an Ogre before this day. It was rumoured by his men that he had been trained in the art of archery by the wood elves, what with their territory being so close to his childhood home in Bretonnia. His eyes were certainly dark like a wood elves', but his muscular figure made him look more like an east Bretonnian farmer. His exceptional skill with bows and spears were certainly proof that he had been trained by someone other than the Bretonnian Army.

The one thing you can count on Ogres is that they're damn predictable! They attacked from the east, across the river, and charged down the fields towards the town, like they usually did. However, you cannot count on Ogres fighting small skirmishes or having reserve forces hidden somewhere. When they attack, they attack in force with everything they have. Like Orks, only bigger, tougher, and even less subtle! It was a sea of green muscle and rock hammers and clubs. The Ogres were showing a small and unusual degree of intelligence this time, attacking the town when the majority of horses had been gathered up for the Bretonnian Cavalry, leaving very few left for the peasant-army of Hiltford.

Gerrad and the Bowmen in the watchtowers fired their longbows and crossbows at them as soon as they got in range, but the small arrows could not do much damage to the Ogre Bulls, a full grown Ogre male. Gerrad took the flint and steel from a pouch on his belt, and quickly lit the brazier in the centre of the watchtower. Reaching into the chest on the south side wall of the watchtower, Gerrad grabbed a handful of arrows with cloth doused in tar wrapped around the upper part of the shaft, just under the arrowhead. He dipped the arrow heads into the newly lit fire, and handed them out to the men in his tower. They all lined up on the east side and readied their flaming bows. On Gerrad's order, they fired. A magnificent volley of fire arched upwards, aimed towards the Mountain peaks, then slowed slightly, and finally curved down into the enemy, felling two Ogres and a handful of Gnoblars at their feet. The display, he hoped, would convince the other towers to follow his lead. They did, but unfortunately, it was too little too late. An Ogre Butcher in the middle of horde, with a group of Gnoblars carrying a small cauldron, crunched down a large mouthful of bones and blood stew, and bellowed a foul incantation. The Ogres around him rippled as their muscles seemed to suddenly increase in size, in the whole Ogre army seemed to speed up. The main bulk of the enemy force galloped quickly across the fields, up the ditch, and into the Bretonnian Men-at-Arms.

Usually, the Bretonnian's would send their mounted Yeoman reserves around the northern part of the town to attack the Ogres in their right flank, but because of the shortage of trained war horses, they could not muster their usual numbers, and their counter-attack was crushed easily. Horse riders were knocked off their horses by the colossal strength of the Ogres, tumbled into the churned muddy ground, and subsequently trampled by the giant mountain beasts. Gerrad and his men could only look on hopelessly, and fire at the rear lines of Ogres, as the front lines were too close to the infantry. While the solid Bretonnian infantry line could hold off the larger Ogres, because they were such large and obvious targets, they couldn't see the smaller Gnoblars rushing around their feet and into the town, until it was too late. Many novice soldiers tried to break off the line and chase the Gnoblars down before they could reach the town and slaughter their loved ones, but this only created gaps in the line, which the Ogres took advantage of and poured through. Gerrad cursed as he and his archers did their best to stop the Ogre advance, but the gaps became too big. The battle was already lost.

The resulting massacre lasted a mere half hour. Building were smashed by giant Ogre clubs, and set alight by Gnoblars with torches. Civilians and soldiers were crushed by either falling masonry or swinging clubs and hammers. The watchtowers were collapsed like a house of cards by the Ogres, and men screamed as they fell to their deaths. When Gerrad's tower was knocked down by an Ogre club, he managed to land on a pile of splintered wood planks, which broke his fall. Quickly regaining consciousness, he found himself face to face with the Ogre who felled his tower. The beast grinned at him, displaying its huge and revolting set of stone-like teeth, and took a surprisingly quick swing at Gerrad with his 6-foot club. Pouncing backwards, Gerrads legs screamed at him with protest, but he shook it off and dodged a downwards blow from the Ogre. The club became embedded in the soil from the full force of the Ogre's swipe, much to the Ogres' apparent surprise. Gerrad took his chance. Unsheathing his large dagger from its Ork-hide pouch, he leapt onto the club. Bounding up to the Ogres' head, he evaded a clumsy swing from the monsters free fist, he plunged his prized close-quarters weapon into the back of the Ogre's unprotected neck. The roar was deafened to a gurgle, and the Ogre Bull collapsed forwards into the mud, like a felled tree. Gerrad landed next to it gracefully, and yanked the dagger from the base of its skull. He took a look around at the continuing massacre, a dimly calculated his chances. There was no way he could survive if he simply stood next to his newly fallen friend. A Gnoblar on his far left seemed to spot him, and began to yell to his mates. Gerrad's eyes darted around and spotted his bow lying a few feet away from him. He dived for it and drew an arrow from the quiver slung over his back in one fluid movement. The Gnoblar began to run towards to town, screeching at the top of his lungs. Gerrad drew the arrow back a sent it whizzing into the head of the noisy Gnoblar. He had no chance alone against that army of Ogres, but the dead Gnoblar gave him an idea.

He had noticed how the Ogres treated the Gnoblars with contempt and so, looking around, took his chances and buried himself under a nearby pile of dead Gnoblars. He watched, and waited. The town had become a mass of rubble in a matter of hours, burning buildings and bodies lay everywhere. Night began to fall. He looked across at his completely destroyed Bowmen detachment. His men had their dark-brown cloaks either wrapped in awkward rings around them when they had fallen, or had them ripped off by the looting enemy. Their light armour had done nothing to protect them when they hit the ground, or save them from an Ogre's mighty club. He had served with these men all his life, and they had been snatched away by an enemy they were supposed to be experts in fighting. The anger was building up in the aging Bowman's blood. It was an old anger, being rekindled from its suppressed state. He had felt it before, many years ago, after another particularly nasty massacre involving an Ork Horde, a mouldy pair of wooden gates, and a large Bretonnian town. A fat, heavily armoured Ogre snapped him out of his thoughts as it stomped by close to him, unaware of his presence. As he had suspected, the Ogres and Gnoblars simply left their dead Gnoblar comrades where they fell, and were heading back to their caves for feasting and victory celebrations with their captured meat of men and horses. Ogres dragged people away with them, many shrieking and crying, some still trying to fight the aggressors with their bare fists. The brutish Ogres simply laughed at this pathetic attempt at unarmed combat, and bellowed animal-like cries in honour of their victory. Their sounds echoed off into the distance, towards the Mountains and their cave lair. As soon as he was sure the enemy had left, Gerrad emerged from the pile of dead Gnoblars, covered in mud and blood, and surfaced to a town turned into debris and fire. It was now clear to Gerrad that Ogres were nothing like Orks, as his commanding officers has thought, and that if he had any chance of avenging his fallen comrades, he was going to have to find someone who was an expert in fighting these disgusting beasts.

The township of Hiltford had ended. But for veteran peasant Bowman Gerrad Terriholme, the quest to end the life of the Ogre Tyrant Braugh Slavelord had just begun…


End file.
